


sing for ourselves alone (speak into the microphone)

by glitterforplaster (ineffableangel)



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Radio, M/M, The Mountain Goats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 21:32:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4278639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffableangel/pseuds/glitterforplaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>impossibletospell:</p><blockquote>
  <p> The college radio DJ has played 22 Mountain Goats songs in a row without comment and I feel like someone should call and make sure they’re okay. </p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	sing for ourselves alone (speak into the microphone)

**Author's Note:**

> based on [this text post](http://icarus.co.vu/post/82794227070), which i put in the summary. this is disgustingly self-indulgent, but then isn’t all my fic? the only way to live.

It starts with _Lakeside View Apartments Suite_. Frank doesn’t think much of it at the time, except that campus radio doesn’t often play songs he knows all the words to, and this is a nice change. He likes the Mountain Goats, they’re a solid band, and it’s a solid song, and as he studies he sings along, almost without thinking about it: _under each eye, little greasepaint smudge, you can't judge us, you're not the judge_. He boxes paragraphs of his reading in blue gel pen and wonders where he got a blue gel pen. Did he steal it from someone? Should he give it back?

After a few minutes, _Lakeside View_ ends, and the next song opens without commentary from whoever’s on DJ duty this week — he's not sure, he's a regular listener but it's not one of the regular DJs, because they'd never touch folk with a ten foot pole, all synth pop and house music and post-pre-apocalyptic quasi-alternative new wave wizard techno — and it’s _For Charles Bronson_. Frank looks into the dregs of his coffee cup and thinks, _Huh_. But sometimes the same band gets played back to back, it happens. He likes this one too, so he turns up the volume and leaves his laptop for the kitchen. _Keep the heart of a champion, never let them see you’re weak,_ as he starts another pot of coffee; _set your sights on good fortune._

Then that song ends, too, and there’s a moment afterwards when Frank expects the DJ to jump in with an introduction or an oh-so-clever witticism or an update on the weekly student bulletin, but nothing happens. There’s only a beat of silence, and then _Werewolf Gimmick_ starts, one of the brand new ones, _bring your heroes to the wolf's den, watch them all get crushed_ , and Frank thinks, _Wow, someone really likes the Mountain Goats_. He can’t blame them, honestly, and it’s not like anyone besides him and the Art Department listens to campus radio anyway, so why shouldn’t whoever’s on DJ duty enjoy themself?

And then _Werewolf Gimmick_ ends and Frank hears the unmistakable opening notes of _This Year_ , and the DJ still hasn’t said anything, and he thinks, _Okay, someone has got to be fucking around over there._  But even so, this is a killer song, best played loud and in the middle of an existential crisis, or as the sun sets on a spontaneous cross-country road trip, and Frank can’t help but dance around his kitchen while his coffee does its thing, _I am going to make it through this year if it kills me._

After _This Year_ is another from _Transcendental Youth_ , _Amy aka Spent Gladiator 1_ , and by this time Frank is noticing a bit of a trend. A trend besides the Mountain Goats, he means. All of these songs are both despairing and life-affirming, _play with matches if you think you need to play with matches, seek out the hidden corners where the fire burns hot and bright_ , and while that’s most of the Mountain Goats’ general discography, Frank’s not sure that’s accidental. Maybe this week’s DJ is going through some stuff.

Then it’s _Psalms 40:2_ , and that’s six Mountain Goats songs in a row, all without a single narration, _made for the chapel with some spray paint for all the things we'd held in secret; lord lift up these lifeless bones_. Maybe someone got fucking lazy with the music selection and just queued up the same band for the next four straight hours, which, fine, whatever. But _Heretic Pride_ comes with a little cough and a rustle of paper, which means there probably is a person sitting there in the recording booth, even if they’re asleep at the wheel, _I feel so proud to be alive and I feel so proud when the reckoning arrives_. Then it’s _The Coroner’s Gambit_ and Frank’s starting to get a little concerned, actually, _when death came calling today... I couldn't say no._ After a few more minutes, his coffee is ready, and as he sips it carefully he listens to John Darnielle assure him that _there’s going to come a day when you feel better_. He tries to decide if this DJ actually kind of needs this right now, in which case, more power to them, or if they’re just seriously into the Mountain Goats, in which case… well, also more power to them, but maybe not on Frank's time?

Once again equipped with the necessary caffeine-to-bloodstream ratio to complete his Lit paper, Frank returns to his desk. He leaves the radio, now playing _High Hawk Season_ , on as background noise.

An hour later, campus radio has played twenty-one Mountain Goats songs without pause or explanation. When it launches into number twenty-two, _I will get lonely and gasp for air_ , Frank has had enough. Someone needs to call in and make sure this kid is okay, like, immediately. Frank understands loving the Mountain Goats and he understands needing some band therapy and he even sort of understands doing it through a radio station, if you can, if the option is right in front of you, practically begging you to take it, because why not? Frank does all kinds of ridiculous and ill-advised shit on the basis of _why not_? But _twenty-two songs in a row_ is cutting it a little close to the bone. This DJ needs a friend. Frank intends to be that friend.

He pulls the number off the college website and taps his foot impatiently while it dials up and _Get Lonely_ plays on, taking its sweet time. Finally, the song ends, and for the first time, the DJ speaks.

“Um, we have a caller,” the DJ says, upfront, no frills. He has a kind of beautiful voice, not what Frank was expecting, soft and Jersey accented and a little like he's talking out of only one side of his mouth at a time, but he doesn't seem too sure of himself; it is almost definitely his first time running the radio, and, after today, probably his last.

“What’s your name and where are you calling from?” the DJ asks, and Frank sighs.

“I’m Frank and I'm a Music major here and my question for you is, dude, what the fuck?”

“What?”

“What,” Frank repeats, “the fuck. You’ve played twenty-two Mountain Goats songs in a row without uttering a word. I’m calling in to see if you need a hug or something, like, shit, are you okay?”

There’s a long pause of the breath-holding, existence-pondering variety. Then the DJ, almost as if surprised by his own answer, that way that people sometimes don't realize they're in a rut until somebody else asks if they'd like a ladder, says, “No."

“That's what I thought,” Frank agrees. “I mean, twenty-two. In a row. You didn't even throw in one _It's Not Unusual_ to lull us into a false sense of security. You're dedicated, I'll give you that. You want to talk about it?”

“We're on the air,” the DJ says, sort of mournfully, like maybe he really would want to talk about it, and Frank swears he hears a little sniffle. “The whole campus can hear us.”

“There go my dirty talk plans,” Frank says. “Look, man— Sorry, I've been assuming you're a guy, is that okay? What's your name?”

“Gerard.”

“Gerard. Gerard. Hm.” Frank pins the phone to his shoulder with his cheek and peers into his coffee cup. It's empty again. Tragic. “Gerard, if anyone else is still listening to your show after this trainwreck of an hour, they deserve answers just as much as I do. What’s going on?”

“Why do you care? I don't even know you.”

“That's the best part. It just means I won't judge you, and if I do you can ignore it because you're never going to see me again. Baring your soul to strangers is so much easier than baring your soul to your friends, don’t you think? I’m just a guy who wants to help.”

The DJ — Gerard — pauses again. After a minute, he admits, “I've had a horrible day.”

Triumphant, Frank says, “Tell me about it.”

Gerard does. He waxes poetic about his broken alarm, his lack of caffeine, his disappointed professors, his pretentious and surly radio superiors, a phone call from his younger brother that ended badly, and the particular feeling that the material world is fighting you every step of the way until you just want to give up and go back to bed, and as he talks Frank finds himself nodding along, laughing in all the right places, loving the way Gerard tells a story, even when it’s about the existential longing to fall into a hole. He listens until Gerard seems to run out of steam, and by then Frank has given up on his paper, transcended the mortal requirement for coffee, and is now functioning solely on the desire to meet the DJ who played twenty-two Mountain Goats songs in a row because he had a supremely shitty day.

“Okay,” he says. “Here’s what you do. Give John Darnielle and any poor sucker still hanging onto this unprecedented disaster of a broadcast a break, put on some fucking Misfits or the Cure, twiddle your thumbs for, like, twenty minutes, tops. I’m coming to you.”

Gerard makes a strangled sound. “What?”

“I’m going to come get you,” Frank says patiently. “No one should have to suffer the very particular brand of blues that causes one to listen to the Mountain Goats and only the Mountain Goats for hours on end — and occasionally from the floor — all on their own. Are you on the floor?”

“No,” Gerard says, but kind of like he wants to be.

“ _Yet_ ,” Frank stresses. “Are you alone?”

“If I say yes, are you going to axe-murder me when you get down here?”

“I don’t have an axe.”

“That is not the reassuring answer I was hoping for.”

“Well, tough. Your show’s almost over, right? I mean, it’s been a while. So what are you doing after this? You’re just going to go back to your dorm and have the rest of your fuck-awful day there instead of in the recording booth. How is that any better?”

Gerard doesn’t answer.

Frank shifts the phone to his other shoulder, puts his mug in the sink, shakes out his hand, and goes hunting for the jean jacket he’s had since senior year of high school. It’s covered in patches that loudly proclaim his taste in both bands and political causes, and disappears irritatingly often. He sometimes wonders if it senses when he needs its services most, and hides accordingly. He’s still hearing only pointed silence on the other end of the call, so, checking himself, he says, “I don’t mean to freak you out with my personal questions and sweeping declarations of action, Gerard the DJ. I just honestly think you’d feel better if you got out of there and went and did something wild and potentially illegal with someone who expects absolutely nothing from you besides maybe a laugh (that would be me). I’m just being a good samaritan here, and blowing off my coursework. And you seem pretty cool, and you didn’t scoff or say ‘ _who?_ ’ when I mentioned the Misfits, which is always a good sign, and no cool people who like the Misfits even a little bit are allowed to be sad within a ten mile radius of me. Are you smiling at that? You know I can’t tell if you’re smiling at that over the phone, but you should be smiling at that.”

After another long moment of nothing, Gerard says, “Come and find out.”

Frank’s jacket chooses this exact moment to return to tangibility.

 

*

 

The college radio station headquarters is a tiny number, squeezed in between the old wing of the north campus library and the new wing of the north campus library café; it’s two booths and a common room, recording equipment from 1976 and a couch that looks like it was dragged into an alley and mugged on its way home from the dry cleaners. Frank wouldn’t have even known the station was here if he hadn’t become recently addicted to the Wednesday 6 to 8, and even then he had to grab a tired PoliSci major on the street and ask directions. (The PoliSci majors are good people to ask for directions because on any given day they either actually know everything there is to know about the world, or they don't but believe that they do.) But once he’s in, he’s in. No one stops him to demand credentials. There’s no one _here_. No one but Gerard the DJ.

Although, to be completely fair, Gerard the DJ is very much _someone_.

He’s tilting back irresponsibly in his chair with his eyes closed, and hasn’t noticed Frank yet, so Frank takes a moment to assess him. His combat boots are propped up on the recording table, and roughed in a way that suggests not so much a purposefully punky and disaffected aesthetic as severe neglect and overfrequent use, perhaps even to a _these are the only shoes I own and you will pry them from my freezing corpse_ extent, which Frank mad respects. His hair is red, but Frank highly suspects that that beanie is a fashionable ruse to hide his roots. And… Well. He is cute. Not immediately noticeable, but beautiful in a way that is somehow devastating. He is the sort of person you could fall in love with and stay in love with for the rest of your life, no matter where you are or who you’re currently happy with or how long it’s been since you saw him last; a steady and unabating ache that against all sense keeps you running back to him every time.

It suddenly occurs to Frank that calling into your college radio just to talk to the DJ, listening to him recount his day, and then going out of your way to keep him company is really not a thing that most people would do or even consider as a viable option of a thing to do, and that he has maybe been flirting with Gerard this entire time. A lot. He stands in the shitty common room, watching Gerard from the other side of the booth glass, listening to the faint echo of _Seventeen Seconds_ (Gerard took his advice) filter out and wondering if there is a Mountain Goats song to describe this feeling he’s having, like he’s either about to make the biggest mistake of his young life, or the greatest decision. But then again, maybe he’s already made it.

Frank taps on the glass. Gerard looks up. He does it lazy, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to crack open an eye and see what’s right in front of him. It seems to take him a second to spark all the correct neurons, but once he realizes who Frank is and what he’s doing here, he sits up and slips off his clunky headphones, hanging them around his neck. He has big hands, Frank notices as they reach for a cluster of dials, and then _Seventeen Seconds_ shuts off and the red _ON AIR_ sign blinks out. Gerard gets up, rubs his palms on his jeans, unlocks the door to the booth, and steps into the common room. He and Frank look at each other for a while, and then he says, “Don’t do that.”

Frank says, “What?”

Gerard says, “Don’t tap on the glass. The fish don’t like it.”

Frank was right. The kid absolutely does speak out of only one side of his mouth at a time. “I don’t see any fish. Do you see any fish?” He shoves his hands in his pockets and glances around the room, as if he might actually spot some fish.

“They’re invisible.”

"My favorite kind."

After a moment, Gerard admits softly, “I didn’t think you’d actually show up.”

“One very important thing you should know about me, Gerard the DJ,” Frank says. "When it comes to riotous behavior, I don’t fuck around. There’s nothing I love more than doing ridiculous shit, especially if I can rope a stranger into also doing ridiculous shit. So here I am, to make you that stranger.”

Gerard cracks a shy smile. “The Gerard Way Cheer-Up Fund thanks you. What ridiculous shit did you have in mind?”

Frank shrugs. “Have you eaten? I know a good Chinese place off-campus, not too far a walk. We can tell them it’s your birthday and have them sing obnoxiously to you until you melt into your chair from embarrassment, and then you can complain about your friends or your brother or whatever and it’ll be great for me because you’re funny, and great for you because I’ll never meet any of them. And then we can make up our own cookie fortunes.”

Gerard’s tiny smile turns into a hugely toothy grin. It’s fucking precious. “ _‘You will be approached by an avant garde Music Major.’_ ”

“ _‘You will be stoned to death in town square for playing so many Mountain Goats tracks back to back on live radio and not even including Foreign Object.’_ ”

Gerard tugs at his beanie. “Stoned? Like a witch? That’s so hardcore. I love it.”

Frank snorts at Gerard's evident excitement at the prospect of being stoned. That is pretty hardcore though. He understands. “ _‘You will lose your DJ gig, but gain an anarchic and unpredictable partner in crime.’_ ”

“Are you a loose cannon cop with a chip on your shoulder?”

“I don’t play by the rules.”

“The force made you turn in your badge. Now you operate outside of the law.”

Frank nods solemnly. “I am the hero Gotham deserves.”

Still grinning, Gerard ducks back into the recording booth and grabs a black bag from beneath the desk. Or at least, Frank thinks it's black, at first, until he gets a closer look and realizes it's actually covered in Sharpie designs and doodles. So cool. Gerard slings it over one shoulder and looks at Frank expectantly. “Shall we?”

“You've got promise, rookie,” Frank says, popping the collar of his jacket. “But I'm afraid I work alone.”

Gerard laughs. It's a sweet, throaty sound.

They go to the Chinese place. They order way too many spring rolls and dumplings and Gerard talks about anything and everything like this is the first time he's ever gotten a chance to be one hundred percent unfiltered Gerard Way and Frank does tell the waitstaff it's his birthday and they do sing to him and he does melt into his chair but he's laughing while he does it, under his breath, pure and delighted and unselfconscious, that laugh that makes Frank think of hot summer nights and long lonely drives, makes him want to write songs or maybe sonnets, _shall I compare thee to a witch again_. After dinner, they walk around the neighborhood, continuing their conversation. It’s weird, because they didn’t know each other yesterday, but Gerard is one of the most interesting people Frank has ever met. He has fantastic opinions and ideas and taste in music and movies and he’s funny and passionate and still so, so cute. Really cute. He keeps doing that thing with his mouth, and touching his face, and nervously adjusting his beanie, and saying “I love that!” whenever Frank mentions something he’s invested in. Frank regrets his life choices often and a lot.

By the time they reach the steps of Gerard’s dorm, it’s midnight, Gerard is fumbling with his keys, and Frank wants nothing more than to stay right here and talk to him forever. His chest aches with it. Or maybe that’s the cigarette they shared a few blocks back, huddled under an awning, Gerard’s mouth torturously close to Frank’s hands, open flame flickering between them.

“So, this is me,” Gerard says, fitting his dorm key between middle and forefinger like a defense. Frank’s not sure who’s really going to mug him between the door to his building and the door to his room, but then again, you never know. Gerard sways nervously, seeming unsure of what to say. “This was… Um. I know it wasn’t— maybe wasn’t what you wanted to do with your evening, but—”

“You’re the weirdest person I’ve ever met,” Frank says, cutting him off.

“Oh,” Gerard says. “Thank you? I guess?”

“Yeah,” Frank says. “You’re so genuine. Like, you wear your fucking heart on your sleeve. You show it off to strangers on the street and you don’t even care. That’s incredible. I don’t have anyone in my life like you. I want to.”

“Oh,” Gerard says again, in the same surprised voice, and then a smile lights across his lips, automatic and toothy. "Okay."

Frank, unable to help himself, leans up to plant a kiss on Gerard’s cheek. Gerard turns into the movement somewhat accidental, so that their mouth ghost together, but a split second later he cups Frank’s face in his big hands, keys dragging against Frank’s cheek, opens his mouth so they’re kissing for real, sure and unhesitating. He smiles into it and Frank’s heart _thump-thump_ s with so much joy he feels sick on it. The melody of something runs through his head, just out of reach.

After a moment, Gerard’s hands drop back to his sides and Frank pulls away. They look at each other in the midnight glow of the street lamps, in the shadow of Gerard’s dorm building. Gerard is blushing all the way down his neck. “So,” he says. “That was nice.”

Frank makes an agreeing noise, starstruck.

”Do you, um... want to grab coffee with me sometime?”

“Coffee is good. I love coffee. I need coffee to live.”

Gerard snorts adorably. “Don’t we all. Well. You know where to find me.” He thinks of something suddenly, and looks up at the stars, a little forlorn. “Unless I get fired tomorrow.”

Frank grins. “Highly likely, I’m afraid. I still know where to find you, though. I’m standing in front of your dorm.”

“True.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Gerard says. “And thank you.”

“Any time,” Frank promises. As he’s walking away he adds, over his shoulder, “And call your brother!”

Gerard salutes. He’s still smiling, teeth shining, and in the dark, it looks to Frank as if he’s swallowed a small moon. Frank thinks of the melody that visited him while they kissed, and all at once it comes to him. He begins to sing it under his breath as he heads home, finally turning away from Gerard.

“ _Some things you'll do for money… and some you'll do for fun… but the things you do for love are going to come back to you one by one._ ”

 

 


End file.
